Tension
by dragonprincess1988
Summary: Tim can be worse than Batman in a good brooding session
1. Chapter 1

He's sitting there going over files again. He doesn't do anything that doesn't fit into his daily routine, and his day is scheduled to the point where every minute is taken up with something. In fact, I'm fairly certain he has at least three separate schedules that he color codes and then puts together to make one giant super schedule. I believe he calls it the master schedule, but that's highly beside the point. He doesn't do anything in the vicinity of fun. It's all work, sleep, pretending to be normal--which is just more work, and avoiding people and situations he can't or doesn't want to deal with.

I've tried to get him to go out. I've tried to get him to talk. Hell, I've even tried disrupting his schedule and taking away anything and everything that can be construed as work. It doesn't work…nothing does. It doesn't help, and worse I know it doesn't. The kid has been through so much, and there's nothing I can do. No matter what I try, it ends the same way. He gives me a small shrug, tells me, 'I'm fine, Dick', and goes back to trying to hide the pain by submersing himself in whatever he happens to be doing at the time.

Truth is, in some ways, Tim can be worse than Batman in a good brooding session. Tim doesn't make it apparent when he's in a mood, because he just continues with his schedule. Batman, at least, shows definite signs of when he needs someone to pull him out of the big dark cave. Tim doesn't. Batman shuts out the Bruce Wayne persona and gets all obsessive over things. Tim just continues with both parts of his life…going through the motions and never missing a beat. If it wasn't evident by all the things he has gone through and everything that's happened to him as of late, I don't think even I would have noticed, and that thought stings just a bit more than it should. It makes me question how many times Tim has needed me and I wasn't there, or I just didn't notice.

I mean it should be comforting to think of all the times I've been there for him…all the times I've been able to help; but Bats just aren't trained to focus on all the good things we've done. We always…no matter what…without fail…in every circumstance, will only dwell on the things we didn't or couldn't do. It's like some unwritten law with us. It's just the way it is…the way it always has been, and probably always will be. It's the way it works, and even though plenty of people have tried to stop it, the truth is, Bats aren't just persistent in blaming ourselves for everything that ever went wrong, we are damn proficient at it too.

The fact that I can see how hurt Tim is and know there's nothing I can do about it--know there's no way I can help him, just makes me feel more useless. It makes me feel like I'm letting the kid down…again--and who knows how many times I've done that, albeit unknowingly. The worst thing is, Tim will never say a word about it, because that's just who he is. He'll just shrug it off and continue doing what he does, and if you point it out to him he gets uncomfortable. Why? I have no idea, but he just does.

The kid is visibly tense all of the time. You can see the knots in his back under the armor in his uniform. When a cape won't even hide the physical strain of tense muscles, you know you are too uptight...literally. I mean the kid isn't even relaxed when he's sleeping. That was the first and only time I've ever tranquilized him without a bat approved reason, and clearly it didn't do any good. I thought about giving him a muscle relaxer. I would have too, had it not been for that whole 'he would kill me slowly afterwards' thing, and probably with my own weapons, just to drive the point home.

It's all just so very frustrating. If I can't even help him with the physical pain and stuff, how the hell am I supposed to help him deal with the emotional crap? Especially when he won't talk to me, won't let me in, and won't just accept that I'm here and I'm not going anywhere. Hell, he won't even admit that there's anything wrong most of the time--which is just ridiculous. I get it, opening up to people just isn't easy for him, but I'm not just anyone. He's Timmy. He's like my little brother, and I get it. I do. And as horrible as it is, I'm almost hoping that he just has a breakdown--that way we can deal with this…all of this, and he can start to heal--I mean really heal--because at this point, I don't know what else to do.

I can't help him with the way things are, I know that; but it doesn't mean I want to any less. I wish he could see it. I wish he could get it. I wish he would just talk to me. Hell, I'd be happy if he would argue with me, fight me, punch me in the gut, or something…anything, really. At least then I would know he was getting it out someway. But this? This constant avoiding and ignoring, using things like school and work as an escape from feeling or dealing with anything…it scares me.

Who knows how much the kid can really take before he breaks? Who knows who he'll turn to, or if he'll turn to anyone, if, or even more frightening, when that happens? What if I'm not around, or I can't pull him back from the edge? What if he's already dangerously close to the edge and I just don't know because he's Tim…he's Robin--he doesn't show what's going on inside that head of his, unless he absolutely wants you to see.

He only gives small clues, and if you miss those clues he takes it as you didn't care enough to notice; and chances are, the same clue won't be given to the same person in the same way ever again. There are times when I think Tim is too good at this life…far too damn good--mainly because of how well he hides what he feels, or how he uses clues to see who cares enough to work through them. But it's times like this…times when I can see the tension, the pain, the hurt, and all of the other emotions he refuses to admit he feels, where I feel so far away from him, even when I'm standing right next to him. It's like we are worlds apart, and no matter what I do, I can't reach him. I can't get him to see that not everyone leaves…that there are those who stay…that I'm here to stay.

The worst part to all of this is, I know that I'm the person he trusts the most. I know that if he was going to come to someone about anything, it would be me. To say that he trusts me with his life is the biggest understatement of the year. Tim trusts me with the world, and it isn't one-sided--not by a long shot--but even though I mean that much to him, he still sits there reading those files, completely silent, while I stand here staring daggers between his shoulder blades--hoping, praying, wishing he would just stop and turn and say "Dick, we need to talk".

The End


	2. Chapter 2

Two hours. I've been sitting here for two hours. I've read the same paragraph 3,436 times, and he's still down here just staring at me. He hasn't said a word in the entire time he's been down here. I can feel his gaze between my shoulder blades. It's as though I can feel nothing except those piercing blue eyes on me. I almost want to turn around and just throw something at him, but that wouldn't be very Bat like of me, now would it?

He's still staring at me. The unnerving thing…well, besides his stare…is the fact that in two hours he hasn't moved, not once. Not a flinch, a fidget, a shift…nothing…in two hours. And I know. I've been watching his reflection in the screen of the monitor for practically the whole time. I have to say that's the most worrisome thing I have witnessed in quite some time. I almost didn't think it was possible for Dick to be still for five minutes. Two hours must feel like an eternity to him. Hell, it feels like an eternity to me, and I'm the one used to being still for long periods of time. If it wasn't for how stern and contemplative his face is, I would think he was in a trance, or brain dead, or something.

I've now read the same paragraph 3,447 times. I can't even tell you what the last word was, let alone what the paragraph is about. Why doesn't he get it? It's hard enough trying to keep my mind on track without having someone staring…no, glaring at me, like he wants to say something, and every time I think he's about to he doesn't. He just continues with that intense look of…I don't even know. Why doesn't he see that I've been going over files, not because I have to, but because I want to? If I can keep my mind busy I won't think about it…all of it. I won't think about all the pain, or at least that's what I keep telling myself. Truth is, it's not entirely Dick's fault I've read this damn paragraph so many times. I keep getting about half way through, and then my mind wanders off into a thought about…well, clearly something I would rather not think about.

Ugh, he's still there; just standing and staring at me. Why doesn't he say something? Why doesn't he get fed up with the fact that I'm not saying anything? Why is he still here? Why doesn't he just walk away? Doesn't he have better things to do? Doesn't he want to be somewhere else? Better question, why haven't I just asked what he wanted? I nearly turned a few times, but each time I just pretended to flip the page. I don't even know why, and he just continued to glare at my back each time. I have no idea what he's thinking, but that look--there's something behind that look. Behind that strong, harsh gaze, Dick almost looks like he's in pain, but why? If he wanted to talk, why not just say something?

Then again, maybe he's waiting for me to say something; but what could I possibly say? Can I really just turn around, and ask what his problem is? Would he even bother to tell me? If he's waiting for me to say something, what would that something be? What if he just wants me to start a conversation? The last time I almost turned toward him, I nearly blurted out, "Dick, we need to talk," just to see if he would react; but those words would only lead to a conversation I can't handle having. Wait, that's a lie. It's not that I can't handle having that conversation. It's the fact that I don't really know where that conversation would lead. I don't know what his side of that conversation would be.

Therefore, I won't put myself into a situation where I can have a conversation which I haven't planned out completely; and when I say completely, I mean completely. I have conversations planned out not only to the last word, but to the point where I know exactly how each of us is going to walk away. I know exactly what will be said, and in what tone. Few people surprise me anymore, and the ones who do so only surprise me because they actually managed to catch a clue I left. Few people notice those, and well…that's the way I plan to keep it. I've worked hard to get to the point where I can predict everyone…well, nearly everyone, and I don't think anyone, including Dick, could really break me from that habit.

Now look where my mind has gone. If I'm not thinking about…things, then I'm thinking about how utterly screwed up I've made myself. Maybe it's about time I give up on the guise of reading, and go upstairs. But that leads to more questions--like, if I leave to go upstairs, is Dick going to follow me? Should I stay and find out which one of us will break this awkward silence first? Should I give up the semblance of not noticing that he hasn't moved in two hours? Suddenly, I found myself shutting the file I had not been reading, and standing. I wasn't even thinking about it, and that was odd, because I always think before I act, or at least try to. I heard his voice ring out loud and clear as though he was screaming, even though it was so quiet. I hadn't even gotten the chance to decide where I was going, or what I was going to do.

"Tim." His voice was soft, but echoed throughout the cave.

I felt myself tense immediately, and I'm still not sure if it was from hearing my own name reverberated off of the walls of the cave, or the tone of Dick's voice. He sounded lost, scared, worried, concerned, and depressed all at once. I didn't even think that was possible. "Yeah?" My voice was low and, I hope, held no emotion.

He sighed as I turned to face him. He suddenly looked far older than he was. "Do you have to use the Robin voice on me?" His eyes were downcast at the floor.

"No, I just like to." Not exactly what I had meant to say, but whatever got this conversation over with the quickest worked for me.

He still didn't look up at me, and I wasn't really sure what I had, or hadn't, gotten myself into. "Are you alright?" His voice continued at that low, just above a whisper, tone.

I hadn't expected the question; to be fair, I hadn't expected any of this. "I'm fine, Dick." It was my standard answer for almost everything, and ended most conversations--most of the time anyway.

He glanced up, and his eyes locked onto mine. "No, you're not."

The sentence was short, cold, and soft all at the same time, and the moment it left his lips, I wanted my mask on for this conversation. I wanted to be able to roll my eyes behind the dark material without him seeing it. I wanted my cape wrapped around me to conceal just how tense I really was; but most importantly, I wanted my armor, because the look in his eyes screamed that there was going to be a fight, and soon. "You have no reason to believe otherwise."

The first punch came swiftly, and it was aimed directly at my head. I only managed to dodge it because Dick's eyes told me exactly what he had planned to do; out of all of us, Dick is the one who requires the mask the most. I just prefer to have it. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse with emotion. "I have every reason to believe otherwise. Look at yourself, Tim! How could I not believe otherwise?"

He came at me with another flurry of punches, but I dodged each of them. I wasn't in the mood for a spar, and I sure as hell wasn't in the mood for a full-on fight. Not to mention Dick wasn't in shape for a full-on fight. His emotions were driving him, and that was never a good thing in a fight. It caused his reactions to be slower, his punches to be slightly off, and his kicks to be completely sloppy…well, for Bat standards anyway.

After I sidestepped a completely off center kick, Dick began to scream at me. "Come on, Timmy! At least try to hit me! Don't just dodge!"

I didn't say anything; engaging him in any way would just be feeding into his emotions, and he didn't need that. Unfortunately, my silence didn't seem to calm him any, either. His eyes suddenly turned vicious, and had I been anyone else, I probably would have been afraid. "You know, you're like the walking dead. Sometimes I think the tension in your back and neck is the only thing keeping you from falling apart, but then, maybe that's what you need."

He came at me again, and suddenly I was extremely glad he didn't have his escrima sticks, even if I would have been more than happy to have had my bo staff at hand. He was adjusting and his blows were getting harder and harder to dodge, and I still didn't know what had landed me in this fight. One moment he'd been glaring at me, silently, and the next he was throwing punches at me.

Honestly, sometimes Dick was like an emotional tornado--one that I would probably never understand. Emotions usually puzzled me, but with Dick it was like I knew nothing at all. I moved to dodge another kick, but I had been just a second or two too slow, and Dick had managed to clip me in the ribs. I fell backwards slightly as the air rushed out of me, and wondered when Dick had started wearing steel-toed shoes while in civvies. Maybe it was a habit I should pick up, because right now it would have been a good time to have them.

He moved toward me again as I back flipped away, which was decidedly a bad move--because now, I was up against a wall--literally. I thought I had at least a good foot before the wall after the back flip, but apparently not. Note to self: Keep mind focused more on the fight and one's surroundings and less about what one wished he had in said fight. I managed to dodge a kick to the head, but only barely. I'd like to think Dick had been holding back, but, well, as it stands, there is no definitive proof of that.

We stood there staring at each other, and, as though he suddenly realized something, he stopped, backed away, and gave me a small nod. "There's no point to this. Get your act together, Robin." Then Dick turned and started to walk away.

There I stood--dazed, confused, and stunned. As abruptly as our little fight had started, it ended. No, he had ended it. He had randomly started this...this…whatever it was, and now he was just walking away. I don't know if it was the anger I saw in him, or if I was just revving for a fight now, but I halted him--knowing it could very well be one of the worst choices I had made as of late. "Where are you going?" He didn't turn, nor did he answer. He just kept on walking. "Dick, what the hell was that all about?"

Suddenly he spun around to face me. "You tell me, Tim. You tell me!"

Had he clipped me in the head, and I hadn't noticed? It didn't seem as though he had…my vision was clear, my head didn't hurt, I didn't feel any blood, or anything, but there had to be a reason my mind wasn't getting this. "What are you talking about? You came after me, remember?"

Dick stood in place, just staring at the floor, "You won't talk to me, nor will you get it out."

No, I still wasn't getting this maybe I had been just a little too slow, and he got me with that kick to the head. "Get what out?"

He sighed and let his shoulders sag. "The pain, Tim."

Oh, great it was this conversation all over again. "I'm fine." My voice was flat again, just the way I like it.

I watched as Dick balled his fists so tight that his knuckles turned white, and I thought for a moment he was going to attack again, but instead he just went back to screaming at me. "Stop it! Stop saying that! You're not fine, Tim. You haven't been fine in the longest time. Do you really think we're all that stupid? Do you really think we don't see it? I mean, yeah, maybe we don't always point it out, or see it right away, but come on, Tim. Look at what you've been through! You are not FINE!"

I shrugged. "I deal."

Dick's anger, and whatever else, had been completely replaced with nothing but concern. "Do you?"

I folded my arms over my chest, and gave a small nod. "Yes."

Dick moved closer and looked like he was about to give me a hug, but stopped a few steps short. "Tim, I'm worried about you. If you keep going the way you are, who knows what's going to happen to you. You need to get it out. You can't ignore and avoid everything."

At this point, keeping my voice flat was more up to my training than I would like it to be, but I'm good at that. "I can and I do. You don't get it. You can't get it. At least, you can't get all of it, and it's not easy for me, Dick. I can't deal with you only getting part of it. It's just easier not to go there, and this works."

Dick seemed as though he was nearing exhaustion as far as this little talk went, which was good, because then the end of this conversation could be just around the corner. "This doesn't work, Tim."

I was starting to get frustrated by this point, and I'm sure he was, too. "Yes, it does, Dick. It always has, and I don't foresee it not working now."

Dick moved closer as I took another step back. "Tim, how long until you can't take anymore? How long until you break?"

"I guess we'll find out." I walked past him without even a second thought. This was the way it had to be. This was the way I could deal with it. This was the way it worked.

The End


End file.
